


Everything and Nothing

by QueenOfSpain



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Gen Work, Injury, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25436590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSpain/pseuds/QueenOfSpain
Summary: I got a little drunk and reposted this. OC gets wrecked, and lands in a post-apocalyptic ER.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	Everything and Nothing

I can't see. A cloud of debris lay low on what used to be a familiar neighborhood. Through my makeshift ear protection, I hear dull thuds and crashes, but I don't stay long enough to find out what ( _or who?_ ) fell, because I'm running.

Noxious fumes coil around my nose and stab at my lungs as charges and flashes explode to my left. _Are they trying to herd us?_ I cough and spit, but never stop running. The dark blobs who were once near me in a pack seem so far away.

My eyes burn and tears stream down my face. I resist the urge to wipe them, and instead blink furiously. I look for a road sign to reorient myself, but I can't read the letters. My eyes won't clear. I used to play here, walk home drunk here, greet my neighbors, and now, I'm not confident where "here" is. Maybe crying will clear my eyes.

I turn to look behind me, and notice the armored vehicles treads getting close. I've been too slow. I duck into the corner deli, and almost crack a smile to know that this is where I die. When I worked here in my youth, I joked with my friends that I was so busy, I'd likely die here. Is this irony or a coincidence? Doesn't matter...

The walls are crumbling, and I nestle myself in a corner, away from what's left of the unstable shelves. I take a shallow breath, lungs still too injured for anything deeper. Something wet keeps dripping on my lip, and I get the vague impression of copper.

The last thing I remember is loud thuds growing ever closer.

_*_

I don't know if I'm awake or asleep. Or dead.

Death seems unlikely, because of the pain. I would have hoped an afterlife would be far less… physical. There's a sharp pain in my head. My skin and lungs burn, and I feel like I'm panting.

My eyelids feel like sandpaper. I try to claw them open, but I don't have the energy for the struggle.

I listen for the thuds, or the crunching of broken asphalt under tank treads. All I hear is a high-pitched whine? Buzzing? It's like cicadas, only constant. I can't stop thinking about it. If it were drones, the noise would wax and wane, the pitch and volume would change. But this is constant, and the more I notice it, the worse it gets. I want to stay aware--to be able to protect myself in whichever way possible--but the noise might drive me insane. I push it out of my mind, and try to find something else to notice.

When I try to focus, I realize I'm floating. Vague sounds and sensations break through in waves.

Then, an authoritative voice. "Do you know where you are?" _Soldier,_ I mentally end his sentence. His voice softens. "What's your name?" I open my mouth to answer, but close it again. I realize that I know what all those words mean separately, but when put together, I can't decipher any meaning. Name? Me?

I search my mind for clues to the meaning of "where" and "name", and how it relates to me, but it feels like my consciousness is spinning. My body is grounded purely in pain, but my mind can't latch on a single thought.

I want nothing more than to open my eyes, but instead I slip into darkness.

*

"Chest X-Ray is back, Doctor." A high pitched voice, maybe a nurse. I don't recognize it.

I hear the sound of thick plastic wobbling, and a soft click. "No surprises here," says a second voice that I do recognize. It's the authoritative voice from earlier, warm yet commanding.

The moment drips with a pregnant pause. I hear a soft beeping over the low, omnipresent cicada drone. "...Doctor?" The nurse sounds uneasy.

"It's a very familiar injury."

"I understand." I can't see them, but I get the impression that the nurse's understanding goes beyond this room, maybe even beyond this war-torn city. A sense of calm flows over me: Doctor has this under control. I try to stop listening for the even tick-tick-tick march of hundreds of boots.

I awaken with a start, and only then do I realize that I have been sleeping. I want to take a deep breath more than anything, but the air isn't sinking into my lungs. I try to prop myself up on my elbows to sit up and increase the lung space, but I keep slipping. It feels like trying to stand up on an ice rink.

A cold hand gently but firmly presses my shoulder back into the… bed? I think I'm in a bed; I can't believe I've just noticed this. I am in a bed. A soothing voice repeats platitudes, like "It's okay" and "you're safe here". I don't struggle. I lay my head back as the world spins. I feel hot and cold all at once, and my stomach flip-flops up into my throat.

I think I groan, but I feel knife-like scratches in my throat and I hear a grating sort of vocal static.

"Just relax," the voice continues to soothe. I don't think I have any other choice.

"Welcome back!" _Soldier_. That voice again. It has a hint of joviality to it today.

I try to turn my head toward the sound, but I realize that I don't know where its coming from. The cicada drone obscures my ability to locate noises, and I wonder if it's somehow by design, maybe to throw us off. I resolve to open my eyes. They're impossibly dry, and even the air stings. I try to focus on the sagging acoustic ceiling tiles, but they seem to shake and double; as soon as they seem to start lining up, they violently move apart. "Doctor..." My mouth forms the words, but I don't recognize the sound it makes.

"That's right! It's Doctor Watson." I'm not sure why it never dawned on me that "Doctor" wasn't a proper name. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital." It seems like the most likely answer, but I'll admit that something feels off. I should be smelling sterility, bleach and industrial cleaners. I should hear calm pages for doctors or nurses. But all I can smell is charred debris, and all I can hear is those damned cicadas. I lift my hand toward my ear, and I'm surprised by the effort it takes. I've--up until now--taken ease of movement for granted. "The buzz..." I trail off, unsure of how to end the sentence.

"Sounds like cicadas or a buzzing in your ears." I nod. "That's tinnitus. It happens when you're exposed to loud noises, and even after severe head trauma." Tinnitus. So that's what they meant. When the bombing started, my neighbors talked about a constant, irritating noise called "tinnitus". I knew it was a droning, but I never imagined it would be _this irritating_. "It may lessen in severity over time, but there are treatment options." I'm glad I can hear him over the din. His deeper voice fills the space, and cuts through neurological noise.

I want to focus on his face, but everything's still a blur, a sort of painful cloudy haze, with ghosts flickering back and forth. "You may have some problems focusing your eyes," he says, as though he's reading my mind (though it may just be my confused expression). "You're safe now." His voice is purposeful, sure, stable.

"What's your name? You didn't have ID on you when we pulled you out."

_Name…_ As surely as Doctor has the name Watson, so too must I have a name. Right? He mentioned ID; there must be a clue somewhere on my person. I flail, trying to pat pockets I don't seem to have. I roll on to my elbow and try to push myself up, but a bedrail and bone-heavy fatigue make it impossible.

I feel hands on my shoulders again. This time, they're warm and large, and effortlessly encourage me to relax back into the bed. He, too, has platitudes, but they sound different. "Hey, hey, hey now buddy. You do too much too soon, and you'll be out for longer. We can figure it out."

I force my eyes open, and his image swims. "Name?" I plead. I want to know this more than I've wanted anything.

"Get some rest," he says, and I know better than to question an order.

*

I notice a soft glow through my closed eyelids, and realize hours must have passed. I believe it's night now, and the wing lights are either off or lowered. Though I still struggle to breathe around a stabbing costal pain, I feel an oppressive thickness to the air. Summer humidity settles on my exposed skin. _There's no environmental regulation here. This isn't an ordinary hospital_.

A familiar feeling wells up in my chest at the thought of being in unfamiliar, and potentially hostile territory. _Then again, if this were a State hospital, I'd already be dead_. _Plus, what am I going to do now? Run?_

Doctor Watson's far away voice floats into the room. "I miss computers… Fuck off, you know what I mean. Reliable Internet. Databases. EH-fucking-R, perish the thought. Remember bitching about Epic? I take it all back. ...And where the fuck have _you_ been?" He swears casually and conversationally, the voice of a tired man who has worked all day.

A cool, cultured voice cuts through. "I had matters to attend to. Where is the patient?" He sounds calm, and all business.

"Christ, Holmes, not so loud. You're technically not supposed to be here." I wonder if they know how far their voices carry?

"None of us is 'technically' supposed to be doing… any of this." I imagine this "Holmes" gesturing at the whole room of what I'm now starting to believe is a community-run clinic.

I hear the click of dress shoes on tile flooring, striding purposefully into my room. I open my eyes and see one solid figure: tall and slender, with long nervous fingers. Around the solid figure, several repeated ghosted images dance around him, and I feel like I'm drunk. They swim sickeningly, and I can feel the blood draining from my head.

"This person is a West Side native. These shoes show signs of multiple conflicts." His cool voice speaks with almost excited urgency, as though he's teaching a class on forensics to a rapt classroom. "Look here." A few grunts of acknowledgment. "That's familiar, don't you think?" Even I can tell this is a rhetorical question; Holmes the Professor has given this lesson before.

"So no name."

"None. I hope this is enough to go off, maybe jog your patient's memory." He lets out a long, weary sigh. "I apologize, dear friend. I fear I haven't been able to provide much assistance today."

I hear the sound of a firm hand on the back. I open my eyes just long enough to watch a broad-shouldered white coat pull a slender, dark-haired stick into a side hug. "You've done enough. It narrows down the search, in the very least."

"I suppose you're right. Back at it tomorrow, I suppose."

_Yes, tomorrow. We'll be back at it all again tomorrow._


End file.
